Fathers and Sons
by LadyWallace
Summary: Story co-authored with Suthern-bell85. D'Artagnan's father pays a surprise visit to Paris just at a moment when D'Artagnan is laid up with a wound, and Athos angsts over being unable to take care of D'Artagnan.


**A/N: Hey everyone! This is the same story that Suthern-Bell85 and I wrote several months ago, but she just sent me the document so I could post it on my account since she's in the process of moving her stories from this site. So this is just the same story, but I hope any new readers will enjoy it because we had a great time writing it.**

**~Lady Wallace**

Fathers and Sons

_"Noble fathers have noble children." –Euripides_

What had started off as just a normal day for the four inseparables quickly dissolved into another misfortune one morning, which came in the form of ten thieves who had been causing trouble in Paris for over a week now. The musketeers had been en route to receive their daily orders from Treville when they had, quite literally, caught the thieves red-handed.

The criminals took one look at the musketeers' uniforms and scattered, knowing that they were spectacularly outclassed despite their greater numbers. The four immediately gave chase, quickly overtaking them.

Athos leapt from the back of his horse, landing on one man and thrusting his blade at another, taking him through the leg. The man went down with a curse and a shout of pain. The first thief that Athos had tackled pulled out a dagger and aimed for Athos' unprotected back, but D'Artagnan saw him and slashed at his hand, forcing him to drop the weapon. The villain snarled and drew his sword, and soon the two were locked in a furious duel.

Porthos and Aramis cut off the rest of the thieves' retreat by standing shoulder to shoulder in the narrow alleyway, their blades flashing in the sunlight. Several of the criminals decided that discretion was the better part of valor and threw down their weapons in surrender.

Athos dispatched his last opponent and looked around for D'Artagnan, as was his custom to make sure the boy was all right. The young Gascon was outnumbered three to one and the men had him cornered against a wall. He was hard pressed from all sides, but D'Artagnan's sword slashed, quick as lightning, as he held his ground. Athos rushed forward to meet the men, putting on a burst of speed when he heard a sudden gasp of pain and a satisfied shout from one of the thieves.

The older musketeer charged into the fray, felling two men and hacking at the third, forcing the man back. D'Artagnan took the opening and, leaning against the wall, ran him through. Athos was at the boy's side immediately, looking him over for the injury that he knew he had suffered.

"D'Artagnan, are you well?" he asked urgently, pulling his coat open.

"I'm fine; it's my leg, Athos," D'Artagnan told him in annoyance, shoving his hands away from him. "It's not even that bad." As if to prove it, he stepped away from the wall, but his wounded leg gave out under him and Athos barely caught him in time before he fell to the ground.

"Not that bad," Athos growled at him angrily as he carefully lowered the boy back down. He used his dagger to rip his trousers so that he could better see the injury. The boy had been stabbed in the thigh; the wound was deep and already D'Artagnan's right leg was covered in blood, the fabric of his clothing clinging wetly to his skin.

"What happened? Are you all right, D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked as he and Porthos came over, having finished dealing with the remaining thieves. Those who were still alive were securely bound by wrists and ankles, groaning from where the musketeers had piled them on the opposite side of the street.

"I'm fine," D'Artagnan repeated firmly, causing Athos to shake his head and sigh in exasperation. He moved aside as Aramis knelt to take over his ministrations. Aramis took note of D'Artagnan's rapidly paling face and bound his leg tightly with a handkerchief, borrowing Athos' to add to the wrapping.

"I think we should get you to a physician," he said once he was done. "The wound is bleeding too heavily for me to do anything and you've already lost a good amount of blood."

D'Artagnan's grumbling showed he did not agree with Aramis' advice, but he was grateful for his and Porthos' shoulders to lean on as they helped him back onto Buttercup while Athos held the mare's reins. D'Artagnan at first tried to sit in the saddle as he normally would, but the movement stole the breath from his lungs and left him panting heavily. In the end he had to hook his wounded leg over the pommel like a woman riding side-saddle, which only added insult to injury.

By the time they reached the nearest doctor's quarters the entire right side of D'Artagnan's leg was soaked with blood despite the handkerchiefs. Even the top of his boot was bloodstained; he swayed dangerously in the saddle and fell more than climbed off of Buttercup. Athos was there waiting though; he slung D'Artagnan's arm over his shoulder and wrapped his other around the boy's waist, holding him up. Porthos took hold of D'Artagnan's other arm and the two men easily helped him into the doctor's office.

The physician, a competent looking-older gentleman who had treated several of the king's musketeers in the past, took one look at D'Artagnan's white, sweat-beaded face and urged them into a back room.

"Set him down there-yes, that will do." He nodded as Athos and Porthos gently lowered D'Artagnan onto a settee. Athos did not like the way D'Artagnan took in quick, panting breaths, or the way his pulse quickened and jumped when he gently clasped the boy's wrist. His skin felt cold and clammy and Athos feared that he was going into shock.

"Please stand aside, Monsieur," the doctor said, pushing Athos out of the way as he bent over D'Artagnan. The musketeer scowled but let the man do his job. His suspicions were confirmed when the medico proclaimed that the boy was, indeed, in a mild state of shock and that the wound would require stitches.

"Would you be so good as to pour him some brandy while I get my tools, Monsieur?" The doctor said, turning to Aramis. He nodded and handed the glass to D'Artagnan, keeping his fingers wrapped around the boy's hand, which was shaking so much that Aramis feared he would drop the glass. D'Artagnan swallowed the drink in a few gulps and fell back heavily against the settee.

"More?" Aramis offered. The boy shook his head with a grimace and then stopped as the room spun.

"I don't think I'll be able to keep it down," D'Artagnan admitted, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt his mouth water. His cheeks had that warm, tingling feeling that told him he was moments away from vomiting.

Porthos noticed his discomfort and clapped a steadying hand to his shoulder. "All right, lad?" D'Artagnan managed to open his eyes, relieved to find that the room had stopped spinning. Porthos' hand on his shoulder was a steadying anchor and he immediately felt better as he met the older man's concerned gaze. "I think I'll live," D'Artagnan quipped, but his gaze was on Athos as he spoke. "Boy, you'd say that even if your damn leg had been cut off," Athos said cuttingly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Porthos glared at Athos; he had been in one of his black moods for the past two weeks and the other three were growing weary of it. Even D'Artagnan had been more subdued in the last few days, unwilling to set the other man off. None of them knew what was troubling Athos, who was intensely private and guarded his emotions more closely than Richelieu did his purse strings.

"You're not helping, Athos," said Porthos, still keeping a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder.

Athos looked as though he was about to issue a scathing reply, but the doctor chose that moment to speak up.

"Gentlemen, kindly be quiet so that I may concentrate or quit the room," he barked, glaring at the musketeers over the top of his spectacles. Aramis couldn't help but smirk as both Athos and Porthos shifted like naughty schoolchildren who had just been scolded by their teacher.

D'Artagnan barely flinched as the doctor stitched his wound closed with quick, sure movements. Once he was done he immediately tried to stand, but no sooner had he done so than his face drained of color. His eyes rolled back in his head and his knees buckled; he would have cracked his fool head on the table's edge had Athos not caught him.

"Stupid boy," Athos muttered as he laid his young friend back on the settee, his fingers lingering in D'Artagnan's hair for a moment.

The doctor pressed his fingers to the boy's throat, nodding in satisfaction as he felt D'Artagnan's pulse. "Your friend is very fortunate; you did well to bring him." He said, standing and wiping his bloodied hands clean with a rag. "A few inches deeper and that blade would have severed his femoral artery. He would have bled to death in moments."

Aramis grimaced at the doctor's blunt words and stole a glance at Athos. The older man's dour expression didn't change, but Aramis could see a muscle jumping in his jaw and knew that Athos was envisioning that exact, awful scenario.

Porthos must have shared Aramis' thoughts, because he quickly changed the subject. "But he will be well again?" he asked the doctor.

"Of course," the man said confidently. "As I said earlier, he's lost quite a bit of blood for someone so small. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do about that. There are theories about transferring the blood from one living person to another, but if you want my opinion, the very notion is absurd," he added haughtily. "Make sure that he rests and doesn't reopen that wound before the stitches come out. I'd also recommend that he eat some dark meat for the next few days; that should help speed his recovery. Now I bid you good day, Monsieurs."

With that, the doctor gently but firmly pushed them out of the door, insisting that he had other patients to see and to come back in six weeks so that he could remove the stitches.

Porthos scowled as he carefully pulled D'Artagnan over his shoulder. "Are all doctors so bloody pushy?" He muttered as they retrieved their horses and started home. Aramis shrugged, adjusting his cloak around him against the evening chill in the air.

"Most likely, though I suppose one cannot blame them. They have a very demanding profession."

Athos didn't join in the conversation and Aramis and Porthos didn't press him, knowing that this latest incident would only make him sink deeper in the dark mood he had been in lately.

* * *

"Thank you again for letting me stay the night, Jean. I hope it wasn't too much of an inconveniece."

Monsieur de Tréville waved it off with an easy gesture. "Nonsense, Bertrand. You know that you are always welcome in my house," the older gentleman said as they walked down the street that led back to Tréville's hotel. The two men had spent the day catching up on days long past, talking about everything and nothing in particular; Bertrand filled Tréville in on news from Gascony, while the latter discusssed the current affairs in Paris and the musketeer corps. Now it was growing dark and they would soon have to part ways; Tréville to get an early night's sleep and Bertrand to give his son a surprise visit.

"I am anxious to see Charles; from what you've told me thus far he and his companions lead busy lives!"

Tréville snorted. "Those four need a keeper; they've already made my hair go grey, see!" He said with emphasis, pointing to the silver that lined his temples, barely distinguishable against his pale blonde hair.

Bertrand merely grinned and shook his head. "Why, it's barely noticeable! And besides, my hair's been more grey than brown since Charles could walk! So really, you have no cause to complain, Jean." By now they had reached the gate to Tréville's hotel; the two men stopped and shook hands warmly.

"It was good to see you again, Bertrand," said Tréville sincerely; he had missed his old comrade these past years; it was growing harder to stay in touch, what with their busy lives and such.

Bertrand smiled and nodded, clasping the older man's shoulder warmly. "And you, old friend. You will keep in touch, won't you?"

"Of course," said Tréville. "And do give my best regards to your wife."

"Gladly. Good night, Jean."

"Good night, my friend." Tréville watched as Bertrand disappeared down the street towards the rooms his four best men shared before retiring.

* * *

D'Artagnan's injury necessitated that they keep a slow pace on their horses as they rode through the streets of Paris. It was nearing the Feast of All Souls and the few people that were still outdoors hurried to finish their business so that they could return to their warm hearths.

By the time the quartet reached home it was sunset, the autumn air growing chilled as the last of the sun's rays peaked over the rooftops. A few sharp orders from Porthos sent Planchet scurrying to D'Artagnan's room to put some heated stones under the blankets while Athos and Aramis carried the still unconscious boy into his room.

Athos removed D'Artagnan's jacket and shirt with a gentle touch that was in stark contrast to his harsh words from earlier, while Aramis tugged off his boots and checked to see that his leg had not begun to bleed again. Athos then took the blanket from the foot of the bed and tucked it around the boy's slim frame. He stood there for a moment, watching the boy sleep, until Porthos came in and clasped his shoulder.

"Come Athos, let's have some wine and leave the boy to his rest. He'll be fine," he added gently, knowing that Athos would most likely stay up tonight, brooding by the fire (if not by D'Artagnan's bedside). Athos stole one last glance at D'Artagnan before nodding and following Porthos out, Aramis closing the door gently behind them.

Aramis and Porthos went upstairs to wash and change while Athos sank into his chair by the fire with a tired sigh. Planchet, who had been walking on eggshells thanks to Athos' mood of late, quickly set out a bottle of wine in the parlor before returning to the kitchen to finish making supper.

Athos stared into the fire that Planchet had lit upon their return. The flames lickered hungrily at the logs, creating a warm glow in the small room, but he still felt chilled. Athos knew that his behavior the past few weeks had been baffling his friends; he had been unpleasant even by his standards, and that was saying something. But Athos couldn't really describe what was troubling him when he scarcely knew himself. No, that wasn't true, he decided as he poured out the wine. He knew exactly what was plaguing him, but like a coward he didn't wish to face it.

The letter he had received two weeks ago was still locked in his nightstand, taunting him with his presence. Another missive from Grimauld, who was residing at his family's estate in Blois, asking when he would return and take up the title of "count". Athos' reply had been terse and succint; he would never return to his father's estate and all of the unhappy memories there.

It seemed that the harder Athos tried to escape his past, the more determined it was to catch up with him, like a relentless pack of wolves chasing down its prey. Athos' mouth twisted at the grim metephor; he was growing maudlin in his own age, he thought as he drained his wine. He had just poured himself a third glass when there was a sudden knock at the door.

Planchet quickly went to open it; Athos could hear him talking to whomever it was at the door and a moment later he returned. "You have a visitor, Master."

"Tell them to go away," Athos snapped, not looking away from the fire.

Someone laughed softly from the doorway and Athos scowled and stood, ready to give the person a piece of his mind. His words died on his lips, however, when he saw who it was. Bertrand d'Artagnan was standing next to Planchet, smiling good-naturedly.

"Athos," he greeted, holding out a hand. "It's good to see you."

"I-you as well," Athos stuttered out, his mind racing a mile a minute as he shook the older man's hand. What on earth was D'Artagnan's father doing here-now of all times! He had to come when D'Artagnan had just been wounded, Athos thought. What would he think, knowing that Athos and the others had let the boy get injured?

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur," he said, "I did not expect..." He trailed off, suddenly feeling out of his depth.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan!" Porthos said, unknowingly coming to Athos' rescue as he pushed past his companion and clasped Bertrand's hand, pulling him further inside. "To what do we owe this surprise?"

"Bertrand, please," said the older gentleman, his hand nearly hidden by Porthos' large one as they shook hands. "I came to pick up some equipment for the farm and decided to make a trip of it. I stayed with Monsieur de Tréville last night and I thought I would surprise Charles." He looked around, searching for his son. "Is he here right now?"

Porthos was about to say something, but thankfully Aramis came in at that moment. "I'm afraid that D'Artagnan was wounded in a small fight earlier today," he told Bertrand as they shook hands. The older man's eyes widened. "How is he? May I see him?" he asked them anxiously.

"He is resting at the moment, Monsieur, but of course you may see him," Aramis said, keeping his voice low as he quietly opened the door to D'Artagnan's bedroom.

The boy was indeed still sleeping, and soundly at that; he hardly stirred as the door opened. His injured leg was propped up on a cushion underneath the blankets Athos had piled onto him, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of one who was deeply asleep. Aramis was relieved to see that D'Artagnan's face had regained some color; had Bertrand seen his son just a few hours ago, the poor gentleman most likely would have been beside himself with worry.

"Charles!" Bertrand hurried into the room and sat down on the bed beside his son, taking the boy's hand in his. "What happened?" he asked, turning to look at the three men standing in the doorway.

"He took a sword thrust to his leg, but the surgeon said that the damage was minimal." Aramis was quick to assure the older man. "He's merely exhausted from blood loss and exertion, that is all, Bertrand."

Bertrand nodded, sighing as he pushed the boy's dark hair away from his face. "Oh Charles, what am I to do with you?" he murmured, stroking the back of his hand down his son's cheek. Athos looked away, suddenly feeling as though he was invading upon a private moment. He was about to leave, but stopped when D'Artagnan suddenly stirred in his bed.

"Athos?" the boy murmured, leaning into the caress. His eyes slowly opened, drifting around the room, and then widened as he saw Bertrand leaning over him.

"Father!" D'Artagnan exclaimed, shooting upright so quickly that he swayed with dizziness. Athos instinctively stepped forward, ready to scold the boy for being an idiot, but stopped when Bertrand caught his shoulders to steady him. "What are you doing here? Has something happened to Mother? What's wrong?" D'Artagnan said in one breath and Aramis wondered at where his sudden energy came from.

"Whoa, easy son," Bertrand said, gently pressing D'Artagnan back down onto the bed. "Your mother is quite well, and everything is fine at home. I happened to be in Paris on business and thought that I would surprise you."

He turned to smile at the three musketeers, who were still standing in the doorway. "I'm afraid my timing isn't the best, however; it was rude of me to arrive unannounced."

"Nonsense, Bertrand. We're glad to have you." Aramis said. "Although I'm afraid you'll have to share a bed with your son, as we are at somewhat of a disadvantage regarding space." He added with a smile.

Bertrand laughed at that. "That is perfectly fine, as both of us are small men. Right, Charles?" The boy rolled his eyes, but he was smiling and looked more vibrant than Athos had seen him in days. He pulled his father into a tight embrace, which Bertrand returned just as warmly. This time Athos did leave, silently gesturing for his companions to follow so that D'Artagnan and his father could have some privacy.

Dinner that evening was a more cheerful affair than it had been in weeks. Following the doctor's instructions, Planchet had made rabbit stew and they all fell to it with an appetite; D'Artagnan had insisted on joining them at the table, rather than taking his meal in his bed. Athos frowned at that but otherwise remained silent, not wanting to start an argument in front of the boy's father. Bertrand entertained them with several stories from his and Tréville's early days as musketeers, describing some of their more outrageous adventures together.

"Jean-Monsieur de Tréville, that is-was always so serious, even when we were youths." Bertrand said, shaking his head and smiling at his memories. "One day, myself and several other musketeers decided to play a trick on him. We kept changing the feathers in his cap, switching his inkwell for an empty one- that sort of thing. He never figured out which one of us it was. It nearly drove him mad, not knowing!"

Porthos and Aramis doubled-over with laughter and even Athos had to smile at the thought of their serious captain getting into such a fit.

Eventually D'Artagnan felt his strength leave him, and before he knew it he was dozing against his father's shoulder. Bertrand smiled down at the sleeping youth, his dark eyes soft.

"I know it's still early, but perhaps it's best that we retire, gentlemen." Aramis nodded and stood. "Of course, Bertrand. You must be tired from your trip; just let me have Planchet fetch some extra blankets for you."

After Aramis had gone Porthos nodded to D'Artagnan. "Shall I carry him back to his room for you? It wouldn't be any trouble; I've done it often enough!" The big man added with a laugh.

Bertrand smiled and shook his head. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. Come on, Charles, on your feet." The boy grumbled a bit about moving, but allowed his father to sling his arm over his shoulders. Bertrand staggered a bit under the weight.

"Oof! When did you get so heavy, son?" He said, shaking his head in wonderment before turning back to his hosts. "Good night, Porthos, Athos."

Athos watched them go, suddenly filled with a sense of longing so keen that it hurt like a knife wound. He knew that D'Artagnan and his father were close, but to see it in person made Athos long for something that he had never had with his own father. Armand de la Fère had been cold, distant and aloof, obsessed with his own title and the power that went along with it. By the time Athos had been D'Artagnan's current age, he and his father were barely speaking to each other. When he had learned of his father's death about ten years ago, Athos had felt nothing but emptiness. He would die before admitting it, but Athos would have gladly traded his title and wealth to have such a relationship with his father that D'Artagnan did. But dreams and wishes were for fools, he thought. Athos reached for the wine bottle, ignoring Porthos' raised eyebrow. It was going to be a long night and Athos had a feeling that he wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon.

* * *

By the time Bertrand had washed and changed into fresh clothing, his son was already fast asleep. He slipped into their shared bed, snuffing out the lone candle before slowly rolling over, careful not to jostle D'Artagnan's injured leg.

Bertrand lay awake for a long time, watching his son sleep. He smiled softly when D'Artagnan rolled over and rested his forehead against his chest, instinctively seeking out his father's warmth. The older man sighed, feeling exhaustion creep up on him. It seemed that with each day that passed, he felt his age weigh that more heavily upon him. Bertrand gently ran his fingertips across the small scar on the boy's left cheekbone, his dark brown eyes filled with tenderness.

'My brave boy,' he thought. 'My little lion.'

D'Artagnan shifted a bit closer to his father, shivering. Bertrand wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulders, pulling him closer. He pressed a kiss into D'Artagnan's hair before letting sleep claim him.

When D'Artagnan woke the next morning, the first thing he became aware of was the warm presence lying close to him. His face was pressed against someone's shirt that smelled oddly of home. He inhaled deeply, still half-asleep, and felt that someone gently rub his arm. There followed a hand in his hair and a soft brush of whiskered lips across his brow.

The boy finally opened his eyes to find his father smiling down at him. D'Artagnan smiled back as he suddenly remembered the events of the day before.

"Good morning, Charles," Bertrand said, reaching down to brush the messy hair from his son's face.

"How long have you been awake, Father?" D'Artagnan asked, suddenly realizing he had wrapped his arm around his father's waist in his sleep, thus keeping him there.

"Only for a while. But you were sleeping so peacefully, I did not want to wake you." Bertrand told him as he rolled over to get out of bed, digging through his bags to find clean clothes. D'Artagnan sat up slowly, careful of the stitches in his leg and edged to the side of the bed, swinging his feet over onto the floor. Before he could stand up though his father was at his side, steadying him.

"I'm fine, Father," he protested, embarrassed at the fussing.

"You shouldn't really be walking around, especially not alone," Bertrand told him firmly. "You need to take care to not open that wound again. Believe me, I should know." D'Artagnan suddenly recalled that his father bore a similar wound on his left calf, as well as several other scars from his days as a musketeer.

He sighed, taking the light scolding silently as his father helped him dress and to the kitchen for breakfast. Porthos and Aramis were sitting there, already eating as every morning, Aramis with a book open before him. They both looked up to smile at the newcomers and Planchet came out with two more bowls of porridge.

"I hope you don't mind that we already started eating, Bertrand," Aramis said, setting aside his book. "You both seemed so tired last night that we thought it best that you sleep in. How are you feeling this morning, D'Artagnan?"

"Much better," the young man told him with a smile. "Still a little tired, but I'm sure I'll be great by the end of the week."

"Excellent. I'll change your bandage later," the former priest told him before he went back to his reading and porridge. D'Artagnan looked around, frowning as he realized that one person was missing. "Where is Athos? Is he on patrol today?"

"I don't know where Athos is," Porthos shrugged. "He left this morning without a word after breakfast."

"Perhaps he had something to see to in town," Aramis said.

"More likely he went to the tavern," Porthos chuckled, taking a quaff of his tankard.

They talked a little bit more before Bertrand finished his food and stood up. "I need to go see about my business, but I will be back later this evening. I shall bring supper."

"Oh, there's no need," Aramis tried to protest but Bertrand held up a hand. "Nonsense, you've been kind to put me up. I must repay the favor somehow." He turned to D'Artagnan and tugged a lock of his hair affectionately. "Don't do anything foolish, my boy, and do as Aramis advises."

"I will, Father!" D'Artagnan said indignantly, blushing bright red as his father laughed and tussled his hair before departing. The boy turned to glare at Porthos, who was trying to keep from laughing.

"It's not funny, Porthos," he told him firmly.

The big man clapped a hand to his mouth. "Oh, of course not."

Aramis shook his head and got up from the table. "Let me see to that leg now, D'Artagnan. We want to make sure it's not going to get infected."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, but didn't say anything. It was good to have friends, but sometimes they could just be a little too annoying for their own good.

Athos trudged through the town with his hands in his pockets, not really knowing where he was going, but not being able to stay one place and sit either. He didn't really know why he felt the need to leave the house-well, all right, he did, but he wasn't going to admit it. It was stupid anyway. D'Artagnan was always getting himself hurt or something, and he had suffered far worse injuries than this before, so he could not use that as an excuse. No, it was the fact that Bertrand was actually there to see his son in such a state that made Athos sick to his stomach. What would the man think of them now? He had to take notice of all the scars D'Artagnan sported, not just the fresh wound, and that was testament enough that Athos and the others were sadly shirking their duty in keeping the boy out of trouble. Not that twenty men could accomplish that task, Athos thought ruefully.

But one thing that Athos did not want to admit-even to himself-was the fact that he could not get the feeling out of his head that he should have been at D'Artagnan's bedside the night before. He had always been before when the boy was hurt; not once could he recall a time he had been absent except against his will. It had felt…odd, to say the least, that he had let the boy out of his sight when he was hurt. But admitting jealousy for D'Artagnan's father was not something Athos was going to do if it meant his life. So, instead, he decided to get out of the house and leave the man alone with his son while he had the chance to see him. It was the least Athos could do.

Athos had never particularly cared about what others thought of him, even when he had still been known as the Comte de le Fère. It had been one of countless points of contention between Athos and his father; as a youth he had been quiet, intense and constantly trying to escape the various events his social status demanded that he attend. The only opinions that mattered to him now were those of Porthos, Aramis and Monsieur de Tréville. D'Artagnan, as much as Athos was loath to admit it, was rapidly falling into that category as well. He knew that Tréville held D'Artagnan's father in high esteem, which said much for the man's character. Few people had earned the respect of the stern captain as Bertrand obviously had. For that reason, Athos kept wondering if the elder d'Artagnan somehow held him responsible for his son's most recent mishap.

It was ridiculous to feel this way, he told himself as he dodged passerbys rushing to and fro. After all, it wasn't as if D'Artagnan was his-Athos didn't have any claim upon the boy…

He did end up at the tavern as Porthos predicted, but he didn't drink as much as he usually did before leaving and the bartender looked at him with a slightly surprised expression but knew better than to say anything.

Athos still didn't head back to the apartments until late afternoon. As he was walking along the streets he heard someone call his name. He turned around mechanically and was slightly surprised to see Bertrand there, a basket on his arm, waving the musketeer down. He stopped so the other man could catch up to him and nodded in greeting.

"I don't mean to keep you, Athos, if you have somewhere to be," Bertrand told him. Athos shook his head. "I was just heading back. Is there something you need?"

"I was wondering what kind of wine you prefer?" Bertrand asked, motioning to the basket he carried. "I told the others I would buy you supper tonight."

Despite his dour mood and troubled thoughts, Athos felt a small smile tugging at his mouth. "In this matter, I shall defer to your good judgment, Monsieur." He replied, recalling their first night with D'Artagnan, when the boy had thoughtfully provided them with more wine.

Bertrand smiled back and nodded. "I'll see what I can do," he said. "I bid you good day, Athos."

"Good day, Monsieur."

Athos turned again and continued on his way home. Once there D'Artagnan looked up from playing cards with Porthos and Aramis with a smile.

"There you are, Athos. We were wondering where you had gotten to," he said cheerfully.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, boy?" Athos asked in a slightly snappier voice than he meant to as he took off his hat and cloak.

"I'm feeling much better," D'Artagnan said hesitantly, knowing he wasn't going to win this conversation, especially when he saw Athos staring at him, his arms folded over his chest.

"You probably should put your leg up for a while," Aramis admitted.

D'Artagnan sighed. "Fine, but don't let me sleep all day, all right?" Aramis smiled and nodded patiently as he helped him back into his room. When he returned he stood in front of Athos, who had taken up his usual "brooding perch" (as Porthos had once dubbed it) in front of the fire. The older man finally tore his gaze away from the flames to glare at Aramis, who was watching him like some gargoyle.

"Let's have it, then," Athos said with a put-upon sigh; Aramis ignored the sarcasm. "Whatever is eating you, I suggest that you get rid of it," he told Athos firmly. "What would Bertrand think if he heard you barking at D'Artagnan like that?"

Athos bit back a scathing reply with effort. "Nothing's wrong, Aramis. Just leave me be."

Porthos, who had been uncharacteristically silent until now, suddenly spoke up. "Oh, I think I know what's troubling our friend, Aramis," he said, peering smugly at Athos over the rim of his glass.

"And what would that be, pray tell?" Athos said through gritted teeth, twisting in his chair to level a warning look at Porthos that would have made lesser men quail. Porthos' smile grew as he drained his glass before replying.

"I think you're jealous of Bertrand." Aramis was amazed to see a tint of red appear on Athos' face, but he was certain that it was the heat of the fire. The other musketeer didn't say anything; he simply stood and went to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Aramis scowled at Porthos. "Well done," he said.

"Well, what do you expect me to do when he's like this? And besides, you and both know that he has no reason to be. D'Artagnan idolizes Athos, even though he tries to hide it."

The younger musketeer nodded as he searched for the book he had been reading earlier; he finally located underneath the dining table.

"Perhaps you are right, but somehow I feel that's not all there is to the matter," Aramis said as he stood, recovered book in hand.

"What do you mean?"

Aramis shrugged, going over to his chair by the fire and curling up, cat-like, to keep his feet warm. "Just a feeling," was his final statement before he buried his nose in his book. Porthos knew that it was no use carrying on a conversation once Aramis became absorbed in whatever obscure tome had caught his fancy. He bid his friend a good night as he thumped up the stairs to his bedroom.

Long after Porthos had gone to sleep, Aramis remained by the fire, his eyes on the words but not reading them. What was troubling Athos? He seemed more than moody of late; in fact, Aramis would almost say that the older man appeared…melancholy. Aramis pursued his lips and sank deeper into his chair, troubled and restless.

* * *

The next morning Athos was again absent at the breakfast table, and he did not appear for lunch despite being off duty that day. D'Artagnan felt a mixture of bafflement, annoyance and even, yes, hurt. What could he have possibly done this time to set the older man off? This wasn't the first time he had been injured, and it wasn't as if he had been trying to get hurt.

The boy tried to hide his troubled thoughts from his father while they were out by the stables visiting with Buttercup. The mare whinnied and knickered when she recognized Bertrand, pressing her muzzle against his chest. He laughed and patted her neck.

"It's good to see you too, old girl! You seem well, wouldn't you say, Charles?" He turned to his son as he spoke, but the boy was gazing distantly onto the street.

"Charles, are you listening?" D'Artagnan jumped, startled out of his daydream as he answered his father. "What-oh! I'm sorry, Father, what did you say?" Bertrand frowned and peered at his son in concern.

"Are you well, son? Is your leg hurting you?"

"Um, a bit. I think I shall take a nap before supper," D'Artagnan said, hating himself for the white lie but in truth, he really did feel tired, but not because of his leg. Bertrand watched him go, the inklings of an idea beginning to form in his mind. From what he understood from D'Artagnan's letters, his son held his three friends in the deepest respect, Athos most of all.

Bertrand hated to see his son unhappy, and after a few subtle questions to Planchet, he managed to locate Athos in one of the many taverns he frequented.

"Good day, Athos. May I join you?" Bertrand asked as he approached the younger man's table. Athos looked somewhat surprised, but nodded.

"Is something the matter, Bertrand?"

"Perhaps I should be asking you that question, Athos," Betrand said, quirking an eyebrow. "My son seems troubled, and I can't help but think that his melancholy is tied to your absence." Athos resisted the urge to fidget in his chair; Bertrand was only about ten years his senior, but he suddenly felt like a naughty child. Bertrand tactfully ignored his discomfort and continued, his earlier suspicions now almost a certainty.

"Perhaps," he pressed gently, "you've been absent these past few days because you thought that I might hold you accountable for Charles' injury?" He knew he had struck the heart of the matter when Athos suddenly found his wine glass fascinating.

"Monsieur, I-"

"I never entertained any such notions, Athos, not for an instant. Besides, Charles is an adult now; no man knows better than I how much trouble that boy can get into! Why, by the time I was your age, my hair had more grey than brown in it!" Bertrand added with a laugh, and then continued, in a much more somber tone.

"I-I cannot tell you what it means to this old man, Athos, that my boy has such loyal comrades that he can depend on. I daresay there is much he can learn from you three." Athos finally looked up at the older man in puzzlement. "I'm afraid I do not follow you, Bertrand."

The older man sighed, a wistful, melancholy expression spreading across his careworn features. "It's the failing of all fathers, you see. No matter how old and skillful their sons grow, they always want to protect them. I am no exception to that rule.

"I taught my son what it means to be a man, but you-and your friends-can teach him what it means to be a musketeer. I know what horrors Charles will face in the coming years, but I cannot bring myself to describe them to him." Bertrand said, suddenly looking every inch of his eight and forty years. He appeared lost in thought for a moment, and Athos waited patiently for him to continue

"But you can, Athos. Tréville speaks with the utmost regard for you; I have no doubts that whatever my son my face in the future, you and your friends will help him through it. That's what you can teach my son that I cannot."

Athos had no idea how to respond to Bertrand's words, so he hid the flush he could feel on his face by draining the last of his wine. He waited until the bartender had refilled his glass before said in a low voice.

"Not all fathers share your sentiments, Monsieur." As soon as the words left his mouth, Athos wondered what on earth had possessed him to say that. Perhaps the wine he had drunk was bad, he thought with a frown.

Bertrand tilted his head to the side, his gaze thoughtful as he studied the younger man. The gesture was so reminiscent of D'Artagnan in his more perceptive moments that Athos found himself unable to meet Bertrand's eyes.

"No, perhaps not all fathers," the older man added gently. "But then again, not all sons are meant to be like their parents."

To Athos' extreme relief, Bertrand said no more on the subject and they sat in companionable silence, finishing their drinks.

Athos and Bertrand had left the tavern and were at the corner of the musketeers' apartments when it happened. D'Artagnan was sitting outside with Aramis and Porthos when three of the thieves from the scuffle two days ago suddenly appeared out of the alleyway near their home.

Two of the men rushed Porthos and the third got in a lucky blow to Aramis' shoulder with his rapier; the former priest went down with a shout of pain before he could throw his dagger. The man then turned towards D'Artagnan, but the boy was far from helpless, even injured. He snatched up Aramis' fallen dagger and swiped at the man's face, nearly taking his opponent's eye out. The man dodged the slash and elbowed D'Artagnan hard in the forehead, knocking him onto his injured leg. The breath left D'Artagnan's lungs in a strangled gasp and his vision momentarily greyed out as fire shot up his leg.

"D'Artagnan, watch out!'

The boy turned at Aramis' shout just in time to see a sword arcing down towards him. He instinctively raised his arm to shield himself, knowing that he wouldn't be able to dodge the blow in time with his injured leg.

Athos and Bertrand both rushed forward, but the latter was smaller and faster. Bertrand barreled into the man, knocking the villain clean off of his feet and dealing him a hard punch to his jaw. Before the dazed man could recover, he found Bertrand's sword point pressing into his throat.

"Don't ever touch my son again," Bertrand hissed, suddenly no longer a peasant farmer but the fierce warrior he once was. "Do you understand me?" The man was a full head taller than Bertrand and outweighed him by at least two stones, but he still shrank back from the cold fury in the older man's eyes.

D'Artagnan stared at his father, stunned. He had never heard that tone in his father's voice before. Even when they argued, Bertrand never spoke to his son with such tightly-leashed fury as he did now to the thief. The boy sometimes forgot that his father used to fight for a living; that he had killed men before.

Athos grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him up, his sword pressed hard against the man's throat. "Shall you kill him, sir, or shall I?" He asked Bertrand lightly, tightening his grip when the man whimpered in terror. Bertrand glared at the villain for a moment longer and then shook his head. "Neither," he said coldly. "Just get him out of my sight."

"With pleasure," Athos said, shoving the man towards Porthos, who caught him and gave him a kick for good measure before tying him up with the others he had subdued.

The heat in Bertrand's eyes faded as he turned back to his son. D'Artagnan was still lying crumpled on the ground, gripping his injured leg with both hands. The boy's face was tight with pain and there was blood staining his fingers. Bertrand dropped his sword with a clatter and knelt next D'Artagnan, gripping his shoulders. "Charles, where are you hurt? Is it your leg? Answer me!"

D'Artagnan shook his aching head, grimacing. "I'm all right, Father," he said, letting out a hiss when Bertrand helped him sit up, letting the boy lean against his chest. D'Artagnan tried to focus his swimming vision; his father's blurred, anxious faced cleared above him and he saw Porthos assisting Aramis to his feet. The former priest's shoulder was bleeding and he sported a nasty cut above his right eye, but otherwise appeared unharmed.

"Where's Athos?" D'Artagnan said, looking around in confusion, his head lolling against his father's shoulder. Bertrand looked up at Athos, who was standing some feet away, looking as uncertain as Porthos and Aramis had ever seen him.

A soft, knowing look came into Bertrand's eyes then and he smiled. "He's right here, son," he said, nodding for Athos to come closer. Athos needed no second bidding; he knelt next to Bertrand, shaking his head at the boy.

"Boy, you'll have me grey before my time," he said, though he was too relieved to put much venom behind the words. If he and Bertrand had been just a few moments slower...

"That's what I've said, countless times," Bertrand said with a smile as he and Athos helped D'Artagnan stand, each of them gripping the boy's arms securely.

"Father…" the boy groaned, and even Athos couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his mouth.

* * *

The next morning it was time for Bertrand to return back to Gascony. D'Artagnan walked beside his father-or limped, rather, with the aid of one of Porthos' walking sticks-while his friends stayed back to give them some privacy. The boy suddenly felt a bit uncertain of what to say; it had been an eventful week and he wondered what his father thought about it all. Did he still think D'Artagnan was capable of being on his own; of making a name for himself in the musketeer corps?

All of his fears were dispersed like chafe in the wind, however, when Bertrand pulled his son into a tight embrace. The boy immediately returned it, leaning onto his father so as not to put too much weight on his injured leg.

"I love you, Father," he said, suddenly sounding like the boy he still very much was. Bertrand smiled and pressed a kiss to his son's temple; D'Artagnan blushed and frowned a bit but it was obvious that he didn't really mind.

"And I love you, my son," he said quietly so that only the two of them could hear. "I am so very proud of you, Charles." D'Artagnan didn't trust himself to answer that and instead pressed his face into his father's shoulder.

They stood like that for a few more moments until Bertrand drew back and clapped his son on the shoulder. "Well, I'd best be off," he said briskly. "If I'm late your mother will have my skin!" D'Artagnan snorted; his mother was terrifying when angered or worried.

"Take care of each other, you four," Bertrand said, his warm gaze taking in his son and his companions. The three musketeers looked at each and then at D'Artagnan, their expressions softening.

"Always, Monsier," Aramis replied quietly.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Porthos added proudly.

"On that, Bertrand, you have our oath," said Athos with the utmost seriousness. Bertrand nodded, gave his son one last fond look and mounted his horse. He turned the beast's head towards the road, but stopped and twisted in the saddle.

"Son! One more thing!" He called after D'Artagnan.

"Yes, Father?"

"Keep an eye on Athos-Monsieur de Tréville says that he needs someone to look after him." Bertrand said with a deep laugh, suddenly looking boyish despite his age. Aramis and Porthos didn't even bother to conceal their laughter; even Planchet snickered from where he had been listening in by the doorway. One icy glare from Athos, however, sent him scurrying back into the kitchen. D'Artagnan shot Athos a grin and raised his hand in farewell.

"I promise, Father!"

He watched Bertrand go until he disappeared down the street, trying to ignore the twinge of nostalgia inside him. It faded when Aramis gave his elbow a gentle squeeze.

"Come inside, D'Artagnan; it grows cold," was all he said before going back indoors.

"Aye, all that excitement these past few days have left me in need of a good claret," added Porthos with feeling, grimacing as the wind picked up. He swore he could feel a touch of winter in the air just then and shivered. "Or better yet, brandy for this unseasonable coldness. Planchet! Go fetch that bottle we've been saving!"

D'Artagnan hobbled after Porthos, pausing before Athos, who was gazing at him with one of his unreadable looks. The boy gave him a tentative smile, still a bit uncertain of his mood. To his surprise, Athos returned the expression (though perhaps it was too quick to see). He gestured with his chin towards the interior.

"Get inside before you freeze," Athos said, the gruff command softened by the fondness in his eyes.

"Mother hen," D'Artagnan grumbled, but he was smiling as he said it.

Just for that, Athos lightly cuffed the boy on the head as he passed him, eliciting a yelp and a curse from the youth. Athos smiled to himself as he shut the door and followed his friends inside.


End file.
